Seventy Times Seven
by Earendilion
Summary: One is never too old to forgive, but for the Eldar, time and the inevitable march on despite age… and forgiveness. Elrond. A tragedy.


One is never too old to forgive, but for the Eldar, time and the inevitable march on despite age… and forgiveness. Elrond. A tragedy.

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The bard had come with a group of wanderers from the South; most were heading to the Havens. He did not state his destination, and though he kept his hood up, he was pleasant and amiable enough, singing and telling tales when asked, fulfilling requests. He had a strange, inexplicable aura about him, something that made it easy to be agreeable with him, but far more difficult to wish to know what the shadows beneath the hood held.

The music he played on his lyre was beyond anything most of them had ever heard, or ever would hear. The ones that had heard things nearly equivalent wondered at it, for those musicians had long since passed out of memory. His gloved fingers passed slowly and tenderly over the strings, but somewhat stiffly, as though the movement caused him great pain. This did not stop him, though after every performance, he would sit back and massage his hands discreetly, his voice smiling and thanking the audience for their kindness.

He was especially dear to the elflings, who enjoyed his presence more than others. In their child-innocence, they were able to move past his curious forlornness, and were rather tender with him, taking his hands in their tiny ones when they asked for a particular ballad, their beaming faces pleading with the shadows of his own. He obliged them without hesitation.

Elladan and Elrohir were among the elflings about him, sitting cross-legged before him as he told some fantastic tale of heroism, his arms spread wide in illustration, then coming to land in gentle affection upon their identical heads. They grinned widely.

"I wish we knew more of him," Celebrían murmured, watching from the corner of her eye. "So as to thank him for his kindness and patience."

"He does seem rather distant, does he not?" Elrond agreed quietly, sipping his wine.

"Not so much as a name. Do you know who he is, Glorfindel?"

The marshal shook his head. "There are many traveling North who prefer to remain anonymous; it is a way of forgetting the past they are waiting to shed, I believe. They do not wish to remember their own names any more than the horrors they are fleeing from."

Celebrían sighed. "That is well, I suppose. I shall not pry. Are we to offer them refuge for the night, or do they wish to move on immediately?"

"I believe their leader asked our hospitality for at least one night," Elrond said. "You may inform those who will assemble their rooms."

Celebrían nodded, touched his hand briefly, and excused herself.

"What do you think, Glorfindel?" he asked when she had left, speaking once more into his goblet.

"I think," Glorfindel began, "that they are no more dangerous to us than a gentle rain. They are world-weary, seeking only rest. They pose no threat. Of course, I shall not take this for granted, but I should not worry overmuch, were I you."

"I trust your judgment."

Glorfindel grinned. "A compliment of compliments, coming from one of the wisest of the wise!"

"If you are seeking a battle of tongues tonight, you had best turn to Erestor," Elrond muttered, placing his now empty goblet on the table behind him. "I am ill at ease, and will remain so until they are safely on their way. There is something about them that unsettles me."

"You believe they are dangerous?"

"Not in the way we may think. It is more… personal than that," he added in an undertone, watching his sons chatter enthusiastically to the mysterious bard with narrowed eyes.

Glorfindel did not bring up the subject again, though he trained a concerned eye on his liege for the rest of the evening, which passed quite serenely. The elflings, the majority of his House, and most of the travelers had retired by the time the bard approached Elrond.

"My lord," he said with a bow.

"My good bard," Elrond smiled. "I must thank you for your admirable performances tonight. We seldom hear such sweetness in these halls – my sons were blessed to see and hear it before all who were accustomed to the ancient arts dispersed."

"I thank you, my lord. But there is another reason for which I come to you."

There was something in the bard's voice which Elrond's ears attended to with particular care. It was as though the wanderer had trained it over many long and hard years so as to change it beyond recognition. Though pleasing enough, and certainly engaging, it nevertheless made chills of foreboding run up his spine. He wished he could catch the subtle lilt that lay beneath the mask, tantalizingly familiar, yet ever elusive….

"My services and those of my House are open to you. What do you require?"

"I have been told you are a great healer, my lord," the bard said softly. "I have need of a great healer." There was a note of slow sadness in his voice Elrond did not miss.

"Of course," he said, slightly surprised. "What ails you?"

"Perhaps we may speak somewhere more private?"

Elrond agreed, half curious, half wary, leading him through the many halls until they reached his own study.

"Please, sit down," he said, gesturing to the sitting area before the hearth, in which a fire was still burning, and lighting several candles. "May I get you anything?"

"No, thank you."

Elrond sat in the chair across from the bard, leaning forward to see whatever injury or ailment he would present more clearly. "Now, is this a wound of which we speak, or an illness, or a condition of some kind?"

"A wound," the bard said as he began to remove his gloves. His voice was very calm, and very quiet – placid, weary. "It is very old."

"How old?"

The bard paused, the hooded face tilting up slightly. "Very old," he whispered. Setting his gloves aside, he stretched his hands out towards Elrond, palms upwards.

Elrond stared for a moment, eyebrows knitting slightly, then pulled the candles closer and took the old, long-fingered hands in his. They were marred with many scars, of all shapes and sizes, resembling most the scars of burns. But they were unlike any burns he had seen before, as though they had not been caused by fire, but something sharper, purer, more piercing, more searing.

"What caused these?" he asked absentmindedly, tracing the injuries with sensitive, skilled fingertips.

The bard did not answer. He didn't seem to be breathing. Elrond froze, then dropped the hands abruptly.

"You… how…" It took several moments for his mind to grind back into rational thought. "Why have you come here?" he forced out. His voice was hard and raw.

"You have nothing to fear from me," the bard said, his own voice trembling slightly. He sounded desperate. "Please, listen-"

"Remove your hood," Elrond ordered sharply.

The bard sucked in breath. "Please-"

"Do it."

The bard obeyed.

Elrond looked at him, then rose with an uttered curse and swept towards his desk to grip its edges with painful force.

"Elrond, you must listen to me."

"Why?" he demanded of the desk. "Why must I listen to you? What have you to offer me?"

"I offer you nothing, only beg your ear-"

Elrond turned suddenly to face the bard, who had stood. "I wish to hear nothing you have to say. You have said an eternity's worth of meaningless filth to me. Why should I hear you now, when you never heeded me? My brother?"

"Please," Maglor whispered. "Please. I beg – I plead – only your forgiveness for what I have done, for the pain I have caused you."

"You beg?" Elrond repeated, almost sardonically. "You plead? Where is thy pride now, ye Fëanorian? Where is the bravery you demanded of us when you went to war, never to return? Never to seek us out, to discover what became of your hapless whelps?"

"Whatever you may think," Maglor said bleakly, "I did not keep myself from you out of indifference or contempt. I was blind for so long afterwards – I could barely keep myself alive, much less leave that shore!"

"Are you attempting to invoke my pity?" Elrond snarled. "You left us for dead. And now Elros _is_ dead. He loved you, and he died with the knowledge that you abandoned us, that you left us as our parents left us for the sake of those _jewels!_" He shouted the last word, slamming his fist down on the desk. "And you now have the audacity to come here, to profess your sorrow, to make your excuses?"

"Only the former. I cannot excuse what I have done, and I make no intimations towards my innocence-"

Elrond cut him off with a wave of his hand and a disgusted snort. Celebrían had sensed his anger and pain, and her presence reached out to touch his mind, gentle and concerned. For the first time in their married life, he forced her roughly away and slammed the doors in her face. His hands were shaking.

"How can you come here now?" he hissed. "Millennia have passed, and you come to ask my forgiveness."

"Elrond," Maglor whispered, taking a step forward, one mangled hand outstretched. "I am old and weary. I will not survive the journey to the Havens – Mandos' call is strong on me now, and I will not be afforded passage. I am banned, Elrond, from any hope of redemption, of recovery or forgiveness. I only ask that you give to me here, on this earth, what I shall not receive in the Halls in the justice of Manwë and Námo."

"You do not deserve it."

"No. I shall never deserve it, which is why I beg it not from them! But you are wise, son of Eärendil, and your heart is good. Please, I beg your forgiveness for these crimes, a few in a sea of many, but perhaps closest to my heart. You and your brother were the last to deserve to be affected by our folly, the last that should have been caught up in that great sin. Please, for both our sakes, for the healing of both your soul and mine, _forgive_, Elrond."

"Do not preach to me, Fëanorian!" Elrond roared. "You, who dealt only death and destruction in your lifetime! Speak not of healing to me!"

"Elrond, think of your sons!" Maglor's eyes were pleading. "Your wife! How can you go on to love and serve them in all ways in which I failed you with this black hate in your heart? Do this! Do what I and my brothers and my father could not do in our wretched pride! I beg of thee, Elrond, find in the greatness of your heart that which we lacked and forgive me. I beg of thee."

Elrond stared at him, disbelief mingling with the horror and caustic, furious hate burning inside him. He could not stay. Turning his back on the desperate Elda before him, he swept from his study.

Celebrían was in the hallway, but he had moved past her before she could open her mouth. Glorfindel and Erestor, too, found him, but their words fell on deaf ears. He ignored them and fled to the gardens, finally collapsing against the trunk of a great oak.

He slammed his fist into it once, twice, until the bark tore at his skin and he bled. How _dare_ he. How _dare_ he ask his forgiveness! It was not he, Elrond, who had been harmed by that last and greatest treachery, when the Fëanorians had left for their final and fateful endeavor towards their oath. He had had the measure of Maglor's mettle long before that! It was _Elros_ who had loved him! Elros, who had believed that he would return, that he would forsake the oath and return to and for them, as the father they had always wished him to be! How could he bring this to him now, when he had thought he had left all behind, when he had turned his face to a new age and a new life?

He did not know how long he stayed beneath the tree. Ithil rose high in the sky, then began to sink again. His brother's face, his voice, his wisdom flowed like a soft, repetitious lullaby through his mind. It was very late when he finally began to make his way towards his House again, towards his study and the past that awaited him there.

He paused with one hand on the door, sighing deeply, before he opened it.

Maglor was kneeling where Elrond had left him, his hood replaced, his uncovered hands limp and palm up in his lap. Elrond waited for him to speak first, and when he didn't, he moved to crouch before him, putting his hands on his shoulders and looking into his pale face.

The lifeless body collapsed into his arms, eyes closed, face frozen in grief and despair – the last emotions Maglor had felt before Mandos had finally summoned his fëa from its earthly cage.

Elrond pulled the still form closer to his chest with numb hands, cradling it tenderly, though he was trembling.

"I forgive you," he whispered, murmuring into Maglor's ear. "We forgive you, Maglor. Forgive my foolishness. Forgive my hate. Please, I beg of you. Forgive me."

He remained there until dawn, unaware of anything but the body of his foster father, of the expression upon his noble, gentle face. He felt nothing, heard nothing. He mourned.

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"When did this occur?" The leader of the wanderers sounded shocked.

"He was called to Mandos late last evening."

"This is… terrible news."

"Nay." Elrond paused. "He is at peace." How he wished he could know if the words were true. "Did you, perchance, know the name of your companion?"

The old Elf shook his head sadly. "He did not wish to be known."

Elrond nodded. That was well. No one, then, save himself, would ever need to know that Maglor, son of Fëanor, was buried beneath a large willow tree on a hill overlooking the Last Homely House.


End file.
